


101 Sins

by witchnsfw



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4994077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchnsfw/pseuds/witchnsfw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various stand-alone ficlets.</p>
<p>Most chapters have a gender neutral reader. Specific kinks, tags, and warnings in the summary for each chapter.</p>
<p>Mostly requests cross-posted from my tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sans/Reader

**Author's Note:**

> sans/reader, gender-neutral reader.  
> the request was vocal!sans with a teasing reader and sans trying to keep his cool.

You never, ever, get tired of this. 

Papyrus is in the kitchen and you’re on the couch with Sans, your hand on his knee. You finger the edge of his patella, lightly, just enough that he feels it. His leg jumps involuntarily and he says, “Shit, can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

He’s trying to act cool but you know you’re already getting to him because he’s started sweating. He can keep that big smile plastered on forever but it’s not like he doesn’t have any tells.

“I was just thinking,” you say, leaning over to whisper conspiratorially to him, even though Papyrus wouldn’t hear you at regular speaking volume anyway, “that maybe we could go upstairs for a little bit.”

He’s about to say something when Papyrus bursts out of the kitchen, startling you both. “I’VE FORGOTTEN A VERY IMPORTANT INGREDIENT! BE RIGHT BACK!” Then he’s out the door.

You turn and grin at Sans. “Or we could just stay here.” You slide a hand over his sternum.

He’s huffing now, like he’s trying to speak but can’t. He’s always technically breathless because he’s a skeleton, but…

Maybe you should just tell him what you’re thinking.

“I know when your bones are all rattled because you stop talking.”

You straddle him and grind down on his pelvis. Choked sounds escape from his mouth and you think he’s trying to laugh and moan at the same time.

“Yeah?” he says, obviously trying to prove you wrong, “I guess it’s just hard to think of what to say sometimes with such an attractive human in my lap.”

You hum happily at the compliment and grind yourself against him again, pushing his jacket out of the way to better feel his bones through his shirt. You slide one hand over his ribs and use the other to gently brush your fingertips against the spine of his neck.

“Ah, fuck,” he says, tipping his head back to rest against the couch. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?” you ask.

“Make me feel so good so fast.”

You feel your face heating up. This is supposed to be about you teasing him, not the other way around, so the next time you grind against him, you just barely brush your fingers underneath the waist of his shorts and press your tongue against the bones of his neck.

“Ffff-fuck. That – that’s so good.” He’s clutching your hips with his right hand, scrunching up the back of your shirt where he grips it with his left. He’s usually not this vocal, but you like it.

So you keep going. You want to hear more.

“Shit, that’s – there, right there. Oh, my god. You’re so good at this. You look so beautiful. Fuck…”

He’s alternatively tensing and relaxing beneath you, depending on where you touch. You scrape your teeth against his clavicle, and he arches and bucks. You slide your fingers under his ribs as much as you can with his shirt still on, and he sighs out heavily and sinks further into the couch. You lean back, bracing yourself with your hands on his knees, rutting yourself against him over his shorts, and he absolutely loses it.

His fingers are pressing into your hips roughly and the choked noises are back but he’s desperately trying to get words out around them. “H-holy shit! You’re so fucking sexy, you’re incredible, I need you, I need –“ he cuts off, suddenly shuddering almost violently as he cranes forward to press his head against your chest and holding you close.

He’s quiet for a minute before he sighs and says, “Ah, shit.”

You snort at him, but not out of mockery, just surprise. “Did you just cum? You didn’t even bring your dick out!”

He leans back against the couch again and his grin looks a little strained. Is he embarrassed? “Stuff it,” he says.

You grin back at him, good-naturedly. “Sorry,” you say, although you’re too busy feeling proud with yourself to mean it, and you press your lips against his skull.


	2. Mettaton/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mettaton/reader, gender neutral reader.  
> the request was mettaton with a crush on the reader, breaking into their house and hurting himself, plus some wireplay.

You come home from grocery shopping and immediately feel like something is amiss.

The first and most obvious clue is the broken glass scattered under one of your windows, but if you look closer you can also tell that some of your things have been moved about. The table under the window has been shoved slightly to one side and everything on it is askew. The back of the couch is facing towards you so that you can’t see what’s there, but you can see that some of the throw pillows usually on your couch are now on the floor.

You’re deadly silent. Someone has broken into your home. It isn’t Papyrus or Undyne, because you only just ran into them on your way home. Is it a burglar?

You hear something whirring, and another sound, something electric sizzling and popping. It sounds close. It sounds like it’s coming from the couch.

You put your groceries down and very slowly creep around so that you can see what’s there.

“A-ah, there you are, darling. Finally. I’ve been waiting so long.”

You breathe a sigh of relief when you see that it’s only Mettaton Ex. He looks a real mess, even though he’s smiling at you. He’s broken a piece of his chest open and through the gap you can see some wires sparking. The rest of his body is sprawled on the couch, an attempt at a pose that didn’t quite turn out, possibly because his body isn’t cooperating. You’ve also never seen him look so nervous.

“What happened?” You walk closer to him and lean in to examine the hole in his chest.

“Well, I was coming to visit you, darling! But you keep an awful lot of mess on your table there by the window, and now I’ve cracked my beautiful exterior on that hideous bookend.”

The hand-made bookend of a royal guard in full armor was a gift from Papyrus. It is very hideous but you like it because Papyrus made it specifically for you, and on top of that you’re going to need to have your window replaced  _again_ , so instead of agreeing with Mettaton you look him in the eye and frown.

He grows even more flustered somehow, but doesn’t say anything else, just looks at you expectantly.

You start tapping your foot and cross your arms.

“Very sorry about your window,” he says, finally.

You sigh again and roll your eyes. You can’t really stay mad at him. “I’ll call Alphys so she can come and fix you up, okay?”

“Oh! No, there’s no need for that. I’m sure it’s a very simple fix. She’s probably doing something very important and we shouldn’t bother her. You can just do it instead.” He fiddles around with something on his chest for a moment before it pops open in two halves, which then slide to either side so that they’re out of the way.

“Err,” you mumble hesitantly as you move closer. You can see all his robotic innards now, wires crisscrossing over what you guess must be circuit boards. “Are you sure I should be doing this? I’m not exactly an expert at this sort of thing.”

Mettaton pats his abdomen, just below his heart-shaped button, and motions for you to straddle him. “It’s not _rocket science_ , darling. Just robot science.”

That doesn’t really reassure you but you climb on top of him anyway and peer inside his cavity. Now that you’re close you can see that the sparking wires aren’t broken, but they’ve come partially out of the slot they fit into, just barely in there enough to still carry a charge and that’s why they’re sparking. Some other wires have come out entirely. All the wires are very small, and thin, not like the fat cables you’re used to seeing on appliance chargers or outlet cords.

You look up at him to find that he’s still smiling at you, with his elbows propping his torso up a little so that he can see your face and his own open chest.

“Do I, um, just plug these wires back in?” you ask. It seems pretty obvious but you really don’t want to mess up Mettaton’s wiring even more.

“That’s right! The wires and slots should be numbered, too, so you can just match up the numbers if you’re not sure where they go. You’re a brilliant human, I’m very sure you can figure it out,” he says, looking as sure as he says he is. It does sound pretty simple.

As you move your hand towards the wires, it suddenly strikes you that this situation is pretty intimate. It’s mostly silent in your house, the only noises being Mettaton’s soft mechanical sounds and the occasional pop of electricity. You’re on top of him, your legs around his waist, bracing yourself with one hand just below his exposed chest and your other hand literally reaching inside him.

You swallow thickly and scoot your ass a little higher on his torso so you can better see inside. The front of your crotch brushes the edge of the heart at his waist, and he suddenly inhales sharply, his hands flying to your thighs. You stop, surprised, and look at his face.

“It’s fine!” Mettaton says, even though he definitely sounds strained. “You’re doing great, darling, please don’t stop.”

You hesitate, but it doesn’t seem like he’s hurt and the tone of his voice is strangely intoxicating, so you continue reaching inside of him. You fumble with the wires for a second before you manage to grasp the four sparking ones and pull them all the way out so that you don’t shock yourself. Meanwhile, his hands are desperately clenching near your thighs, sometimes grabbing them and sometimes letting go and fisting up in the air before becoming slack again. It doesn’t seem like he can control his movements properly.

He isn’t protesting so you try not to worry about it, and start inserting the wires into their correct slots. Your fingers keep getting clumsily tangled in the other wires – there are so many of them – and you have to stop and get untangled several times before continuing so it’s taking you a long time. You glance up at Mettaton’s face again to make sure he’s doing alright.

You’re shocked to find that he looks positively enraptured.

His mouth is hanging open in a broad smile and his metallic cheeks are flushed. His eyes are lidded heavily but he’s looking right at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen his life.

You try to say something but your mouth is suddenly very dry and you’re not sure what you’d say to him anyway.

You shift nervously on top of him, staring back at him still. You put your hand back inside but you aren’t really paying attention, and instead of doing anything useful, your fingers just slide into a large mass of wires. You curse under your breath and start to remove them, tugging the wires around in the process.

“O-ooh!” he moans, and his head falls back. His hands are shaking, and at some point they’ve moved to your hips. He’s trying to pull you closer but he’s shaking too hard to do a good job of it so you slide yourself up.

Your crotch lands directly over the heart-shaped button and he garbles something incoherently.

“Are you okay?” you ask. He doesn’t look like he’s in pain but you’re a little worried about how quickly this has escalated.

“D-darling,” he says, with some degree of difficulty, “I have never be-en more okay in my l-liiiife.” Every time his voice catches it sounds like an auto-tune going berserk.

You quickly get back to plugging in the remaining wires. After three more are replaced, his body starts to quake. After five, he’s babbling again, but his voice is still so garbled that you barely catch the words. You think you hear “beautiful” and “amazing,” but you aren’t sure.

All the wires are in their proper place now. Mettaton is still wracked with tremors occasionally but he seems to be calming down. You look at the tangled mass of cords for a second before getting a very wicked idea.

You check Mettaton’s face first to make sure he’s still happy and smiling, and he is, albeit while also looking utterly ravished and exhausted. Then, carefully, you curl your fingers around as many of the wires as you can without pulling them out of their slots.

Then you slowly squeeze, grinding yourself against the heart at his waist at the same time.

“D-daaaAA-AAaarling!” He screams and his eyes fly wide open and roll back, and he clutches your hips as his entire body shakes. You can hear his mechanics rushing into overdrive, whirring loudly. He tries to say something else, but it only comes out as noise.

You don’t want to short circuit him, so you let go. His eyes slide shut and his arms fall limply to the side while his body heaves with exertion.

“My dear human,” he says, quieter than you’ve ever heard him be, “that was our best performance yet.”


	3. Papyrus/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> papyrus/reader, gender neutral reader.  
> the request was accidental touching with papyrus begging the reader not to stop because it feels good. sensitive bone touching with no spoopy glowdicks.

In hindsight, offering to teach Papyrus how to cook wasn’t your brightest idea, and you really should have expected him to flip it around somehow so that he’s the one “teaching”  _you_  to cook.

He’s just finished explaining how you should always keep the stove turned to the highest setting because “what you’re looking for is the water boiling up and over the rim of the pot! Ah, listen to that sizzle!” You look warily at the bubbling water as it flecks and drips out of the pot, hitting the stovetop and quickly evaporating. Papyrus stands beside you with his hands resting on his hips and looks extraordinarily pleased with himself.

“Um, maybe,” you start, and reach out to touch his arm lightly, your fingers curling slightly around his ulna, “maybe we could turn the heat down just a little.”

He jumps, and you suppose you must have startled him. “I – that’s –“ he stammers, suddenly looking very nervous. “Whatever! It’s probably done by now anyway!”

It’s definitely not and the pasta wouldn’t even qualify as al dente, but you decide it’s probably better not to protest and just watch as he hurriedly turns off the stove and pours the contents of the pot into a strainer in the sink.

* * *

Later, you’re outside, and Papyrus has convinced you to help set up and test his latest puzzle design - although it’s not like it took much persuading for you to agree because you’ve never been able to say no to him. Even though he’s not in the human-capturing business anymore, he still has an enthusiasm for japes. Plus, Snowdin has become something of a tourist attraction for humans, so he often sets up playful puzzles for visitors. He’s fiddling with some sort of pressure plate on the ground and it looks like he’s getting frustrated. You stop what you were working on and walk up behind him to see if you can help.

It’s a bit difficult to see what he’s doing since he’s crouched down and hunched over it. You lean in closer to get a better look and place your hand on the back of his chest plate to brace yourself, but you slip on the fabric of his scarf and end up brushing the vertebrae in his neck instead.

Papyrus shoots up immediately, nearly knocking you over and into the snow. His cheekbones look incredibly flushed and he’s shivering lightly. “BOY, SURE IS COLD OUT HERE! THAT’S ENOUGH FOR TODAY! LET’S GO BACK INSIDE!” he shouts, and storms back towards the house without even waiting for you to follow.

You distinctly remember him mentioning to you once that skeletons don’t feel the sensation of temperature before you start jogging to catch up with him.

* * *

You’re back at his house, curled up on his couch with a blanket because you, unfortunately, do feel the sensation of temperature and it really was cold outside.

You glance over at Papyrus as he stares, entranced, at his favorite show playing on the TV. Despite his earlier outburst, he doesn’t seem angry with you, but you’re still worried that you’ve done something to upset him. You shift your blanket around before scooting a little closer to him on the couch and reaching out to place a hand on his knee.

You meant it to be a friendly and reassuring gesture before you confronted him, but he jumps an inch off his seat as though you’re made of fire. He clutches the arm rest with one hand, leaning away from you slightly and looking at you like you might bite him.

“Y-YES?” he screeches, and it sounds like he’s just inhaled helium.

“Listen, Papyrus, is everything okay? Did I do something that bothered you?” You move your hand away from his knee. “You’ve been acting really strange, so…”

He slams his hand on top of yours and presses it back onto his leg. “No,” he says.

You wait for him to say more, because Papyrus almost always has more to say, but he doesn’t elaborate. You furrow your brow and you prompt him, “No, you’re not okay? Or no, I didn’t do anything that bothered you?” Absently, you finger the ridge of his patella and the bumps on the medial epicondyle of his femur.

“The f-first one – but also the second one? Or perhaps not the second one, but definitely the first one. No, wait,” he says, speaking so fast that you can barely keep up, “definitely the second one but not the first one. No, t-that’s not right either!”

He’s violently bouncing the knee that you’re touching, and you make to pull away your hand, but he presses it down again and keeps his gloved hand on top of yours this time.

“Papyrus, seriously, tell me what you’re feeling.”

He glances away from you and off to the side. He looks embarrassed. “It feels nice,” he says quietly.

“What does?” You can’t believe you’re having to grill him like this. Papyrus gets cagey about things sometimes when he’s nervous but he’s being unusually tight-lipped.

He rolls his shoulders upwards like he’s trying to hide his head between them and answers, “When you touch me.”

“Oh,” you gasp, and now you understand perfectly but also not at all. “I thought you said skeletons don’t feel.”

“We don’t feel  _temperature_ ,” he corrects you. “I, for one, have an excellent sense of touch! Probably the best! I have the most sensitive bones in the Underground!” He looks very proud of this, even though his leg is still shaking.

“Do you want me to stop touching you? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you ask.

“NO!” he screams, and his expression has immediately changed from pride to alarm. “The problem isn’t when you touch me!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He seems to be thinking about his answer for a moment, and then he starts talking with a loud throat-clearing noise. “As great as I, the magnificent Papyrus, am,” he says, and you feel a little reassured that he’s still his usual boastful self, “I don’t actually know anything about… making a human feel good. But you do it to me so easily, and it’s not fair to you if I don’t give you anything back.”

“I don’t mind if it’s just me making you feel good,” you blurt out before you’re even processing the words. Your brain feels like mush and your legs have gone numb. This is not where you expected this conversation go. You did not expect to be offering to feel up a skeleton today.

But you’re not lying. You like the idea of touching Papyrus and making him feel nice. He doesn’t need to give you anything in return.

“R-really?” he stammers, visibly surprised. “It’s okay? Can you touch me more?”

He shamelessly grabs your other hand and brings it up and under his chest plate so that you’re grazing the edge of his last rib. You move closer to him to better reach your hand inside and gently trace the outline of each rib, working your way up.

His eye sockets slide shut and he’s shaking already, leaning onto the couch for support. He makes a sound like he’s exhaling after holding his breath for hours. You can hear his bones rattle softly as he brings his legs up onto the couch, one of them brushing up against yours and the other tucked underneath himself. His hands are resting limply in his lap.

You’re facing each other now, both of you sitting sideways. You move even closer so that you’re practically sitting in his lap, and your legs naturally go around his waist. Your thighs are resting on top of his femurs and your calves are touching his lumbar vertebrae.

You reach a second hand up inside his rib cage, then bring both hands down his ribs like you’re running your fingers across a piano’s keys. He tenses, grips your thighs with his bony hands and groans. Then he relaxes again and rests his head on top of yours, cheekbone near your hairline, and hums happily.

You keep one hand up his chest to feel at his sternum, but move your other hand into his pants to trace the iliac spine of his pelvis. Then you dip your fingers inside and run them down his sacral promontory, dipping them quickly into the holes there. Papyrus’s whole body quakes and his hands slide up to your hips where he clutches onto you. He tries to roll his hips upward and grind against your hand more, but you bring the hand in his rib cage down to press on his ilium from the inside and your legs have trapped his.

“Human,” he groans, “it’s too much.”

“Should I stop?” you ask.

He shakes his head, rubbing his forehead against yours, and places one hand on top of yours inside his own pelvis. He moves you to touch his pubis, and your fingers slide down into one of the holes just below it, tracing the rim between the superior ramus and the ischium.

He hunches over suddenly, his head resting against your shoulder now as he shakes so hard that you’re afraid his bones will rattle right out of their sockets. He makes a choked noise, almost like a sob, before he goes completely limp and his hand falls from your waist. You stop touching him, but keep your hands inside his pelvis with your wrists resting on the crest of it. He still has one hand inside as well, and he laces his fingers with yours.

“Human,” he says, “you are very, very good at this.”

“Thank you,” you say, and your chest bursts with the feeling of pride.

“This means that I’ll have to make an even more earnest effort to repay you!”

“What?” You pull back and he lifts his head. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You deserve to feel as nice as you make me feel. You’re good, but there’s no possible way I could fail! I’ll definitely make you feel even better! This is me we’re talking about, after all.”

“This isn’t a competition!” you protest, but he’s already dragging you by the wrist back to his room.

“NONSENSE!” he shouts and grins at you, looking determined. “I WON’T SETTLE FOR LESS THAN THE BEST!”

You smile and resign yourself to having a very long night.


	4. Sans/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> praise/body worship, reader is insecure about their weight. no warnings, pretty vanilla. tried to make this as gender neutral as possible, so there’s no specific genitalia mentions/terms.  
> requested by buttchan on tumblr and a couple anons.

Something you learned very quickly after meeting the skeleton brothers is that skeletons are very still.

Well, perhaps not these particular skeletons – Papyrus is always fidgeting and Sans’ shoulders are always shaking with laughter at his own jokes – but when they’re at rest, their bodies are practically lifeless.

There are no small, involuntary bodily processes with a skeleton. They don’t breathe, so there’s no rhythmic rising and falling of their chest. They don’t have eyelids or eyes, so the only time they blink is when they deliberately choose to close their sockets. There’s no skin or muscle to twitch and ripple when they flex. It’s even hard to tell when they’re tense because their movements always seem a little stiff with no flesh to smooth out the actions.

It’s actually really fascinating to see, and you catch yourself staring at them a lot. Sans in particular, since he’s a lot less energetic than his brother so you see the stillness more often. You try not to watch too much, because you know it’s rude, but you can’t help it.

Recently, Sans has been staring back.

It’s a little unnerving when you turn around and see those pinpricks of light deep in his sockets trained on you and you realize he’s been watching you unwaveringly for some time. You try not to let it bother you, since you’re guilty of doing the same and you’re sure he doesn’t mean any harm, but it’s started to put you on edge.

It probably doesn’t help that when you catch him in the act, instead of looking away and being appropriately embarrassed, he just keeps staring and widens his grin, and _you’re_ the one who ends up breaking eye contact with red on your face.

You’re starting to wonder if he’s mocking you, if he’s actually repulsed by you. You’re bigger than a lot of other humans, and you’ve always been insecure about it. It would make sense if a literal skeleton would feel disgusted by all the extra skin and fat hanging off your bones.

So when you’re watching a movie with Sans one day and he makes a move on you, you’re more than a little surprised.

His bony hand is on your thigh, squeezing the flesh as it creeps closer to your crotch, and it feels nice, but Sans is still staring at the screen as though nothing is happening. What’s he doing? Is he playing some kind of cruel prank on you?

You watch him, waiting for him to turn around and shout “gotcha” but he just sits there, grinning, and very, very still.

You muster up the courage to say something. “What are you doing?” you ask, accusatory and chiding.

Your voice seems to startle him and suddenly he looks nervous. “Uh,” he stammers, “I’m just – I thought –“ He cuts off and begins to sweat profusely.

You glare at him but don’t move his hand. If this is a shitty joke then you’re going to make him feel as guilty as possible and make him fix it himself.

“I thought you were interested,” he says, and he finally pulls his hand back. He clutches it to his chest like it’s been burned. “You _seemed_ interested,” he finishes, sounding unsure.

He’s not wrong, and you don’t want to lie. “I am interested. But you don’t have to pretend like you’re interested in me. I get it.” You feel like you’ve said enough, so you turn back to the TV.

You can see in your peripheral vision that he’s giving you an incredulous look. “Get _what_?”

“I get that you’re not interested.”

“I clearly am.”

You sigh. “Sans, this joke isn’t funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

You turn your whole body to face him, ready to glare at him again, but he’s looking at you with such sincerity that you back down immediately.

“Hey, I’m trying to be serious here,” he says, the humor coming back into his voice, “but we both know that’s a real trial for a bonehead like me.” He moves closer to you, spreading your legs and kneeling between them. “I don’t get why you’re being stubborn about this when I’ve been blatantly eyeing you up for ages now.”

“But I’m fat,” you blurt out.

His forehead bunches up in confusion. “Yeah, I guess so. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Don’t you think it’s gross? Wouldn’t it be better if I was thinner?”

He squints at you. “What are you talking about? I mean, I’m sure I’d like you no matter what kind of body you had, because it’s _you_ , but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find you completely attractive the way you are now.”

He slides one hand over your stomach over your clothes, the other gripping your thigh. “You’re really hot,” he says simply, and it hits you like a brick.

There are people who find your weight disgusting, and there are people who fetishize it because it’s not the conventional beauty standard, which is almost worse. For Sans, it’s not like that. For Sans, it’s just your body, and it’s different from his and he likes that in the same way that you find his body interesting.

You’re silent for so long that Sans starts to remove his hands. “Hey,” he says, “if this makes you uncomfortable, just say so. It’s okay.”

You shake your head emphatically and place his hand back on your stomach. It feels a little strange, offering up the parts of you that you’re most insecure about, but if Sans likes your body then you want him to touch you.

“Shit, yes,” he groans appreciatively, and he starts running his hands over your body again.

His hard bones feel strange against your soft skin, alien and slightly cold, but it’s nice. He squeezes the fat of your stomach, runs his hands down your sides, and reaches underneath you to cup your ass. He nuzzles his face into your chest and then your stomach, humming happily.

“Holy shit,” he says, voice tinged with wonder. “I can’t believe I get to touch you like this. Fuck, you’re so soft. It feels so good.”

“You haven’t even taken my clothes off yet!” you exclaim while laughing. He’s overreacting for your benefit, surely.

He looks up at you with shock and awe. “You’d let me?”

“I mean,” you squirm, suddenly realizing just how high his expectations are, “if you want to, sure.”

“ _If_ I want to?” he scoffs. “Now who’s telling jokes?” And he starts to pull off your shirt.

He makes short work of all your clothes, and his own too, and you’re soon lying nude underneath him on the couch. He trails both his hands and his gaze over your body as you breathe heavily and try not to look too nervous.

“Relax,” he says, “you look amazing.”

He runs his hand down the length of your body, picks up one of your legs and places a mock kiss against your calf. He presses his face into your thigh, slips a hand between your legs to prod gently at your entrance. You breathe in sharply.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just…” you start, and then opt to just grab his hand and pull him up.

He hovers over you, confused, but his face immediately clouds with a different emotion when you pop two of his phalanges in your mouth and suck.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, his eyes locked with yours. “Damn, you’re so fucking sexy, everything about you is so hot. Shit.” He flushes and hides his face in your neck. “I wanna be inside you so bad.”

You release his fingers from your mouth, now coated in your spit, and he fingers your entrance again. They slide inside with less resistance, and Sans scissors them slowly inside of you. His free hand is roaming your body again, stopping occasionally to squeeze you or smooth his fingers over a particular spot, admiring the softness there. He whispers more praises into your skin, tells you how much he loves a particular curve of your body or the way your skin feels.

After a while he pulls his fingers out of you and looks at your face for approval. You nod, and Sans’ eyes go dark before one begins to glow blue. Something significantly larger than his fingers presses against your hole. Sans takes a moment to adjust himself, before the head of his cock pops inside of you.

You hiss and try to relax and he says, “You’re tight, fuck, you’re so, so tight,” but he slides in further mostly without resistance. He gives you a moment to adjust before he slowly pulls back out, and then thrusts back in, and the feeling of him stretching you is so good.

“Sans,” you pant, and he groans in response. His hands grip your waist and he picks up his pace. He watches not only your face but your body, too.

“Shit,” he moans, “the way you move is so fucking incredible, you feel so good around me, fuck, _fuck_ …”

He grips your ass and leans down to press his body against yours, hard ribs and bone sinking into your flesh. His thrusts are fast and hard but shallow, like he can’t bring himself to leave your body for longer than a split second. The pressure builds inside of you as he babbles above you, “Your body is amazing, fuck, I love it, I love touching you and feeling you and how soft you are, I can’t stop looking at you, I _can’t_ –“

His pelvis moves against yours just right, and he says, “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” and you’re cumming, squeezing around his dick and clutching the back of his rib cage. He spews out a litany of curses and praise and you miss most of it, still shuddering from your own orgasm, but you do feel something warm fill you up and spill out of you as he continues to thrust.

After a long groan and a few more trembling thrusts, he stops, his bony body still pressed against your soft one, but his hands are still on your body, touching you and caressing you gently. You’re pretty out of it, but he’s worse, dazed and sweaty and drooling and mumbling “so good, so good,” over and over.

You should probably move, you think hazily, before the sticky mess you’ve both made cools, but you feel so safe and loved that you’re afraid moving now would break the spell. Besides, Sans is already falling asleep on top of you, still and breathless, but so alive. You close your eyes and breathe deeply before nodding off into dreamland with him.

 


	5. Sans/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> finally got around to doing another request lol.
> 
> Sans/Reader - afab reader. established relationship break up. angst/comfort. makeup sex. rough and emotional sex, possessive language, possible warning for unhealthy relationship?

“Listen, I just don’t think this is working out.”

You slam your fist on the table, drawing the attention of the whole restaurant. Sans looks embarrassed now that everyone is staring. Good. “It’s ‘not working out’ because you’re not even  _trying_  to make it work.”

He scoffs and glances away from you. “You don’t get it. You never fucking get it. This was a mistake.”

“What’s a mistake? Breaking up with me in public?” you sneer. “Because I  _know_  you don’t mean that last nine months were a mistake, Sans, I’ve never seen you be this happy before. I make you happy.”

“Don’t be bone-headed, you know exactly what I mean.” He snaps his head back to face you. You hate that he’s making puns, even now. “I never should have gotten involved with you like this, I shouldn’t have –“

“Don’t start,” you hiss, and suddenly everyone’s stares feel hot on your back because now you look like the bad guy here, and it isn’t fair. “Don’t you start with your self-depreciating shit, I’m so sick of it.” You’re being cruel now, but you don’t care.

“Say what you really mean,” he says, forcing his voice to be calm and even and you hate that he always keeps his cool for ages before he finally snaps and says how he really feels. “You’re sick of  _me._ ”

“That’s not –“

“We aren’t good for each other,” he interrupts you, and it’s not true, it’s not, you have rough spots like any couple but you support each other and you’ve never been in a fight this bad before, “you’re going places and I’m holding you back. You don’t need a second skeleton crawling under your skin.”

This conversation has gone off the rails and you don’t know what to say to put it back on track.

“I’m leaving,” Sans says, taking an excessive amount of cash from his pocket and dropping it on the table. “Don’t wait up tonight.”

He’s talking about your routine late-night phone call. He works the night shift at a crappy fast food place and he always calls you during his break to chat before you go to bed. He’s saying he’s not gonna call this time.

You sit there and watch him leave, trying not to start sobbing into your untouched food. Why’d he even let you order? He didn’t order anything. He knew from the beginning that he was breaking up with you tonight.

You put even more money on the table as an apology for making a scene and hurry home so you can wallow in your misery.

 

* * *

 

Days pass, and you still stay up every night waiting for a phone call that doesn’t come.

Weeks pass, and you give up trying to reach out to him every so often. He doesn’t want you and you’re just going to have to accept that. It hurts, but you can’t pester him into staying with you or going back to being friends.

A month passes, and you’ve stopped crying yourself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Three months later, and you try, unsuccessfully, not to think about it anymore. Little things remind you of him incessantly, and he’s always in the back of your mind. You still instinctively bring up his number on your phone when you need to vent to someone, but you don’t call it.

If he hadn’t broken up with you, today would’ve been your one-year anniversary.

It’s late on Friday night and you’ve had a rough day (a rough week, a rough several months), so you’re trying to unwind with a bubble bath. Your phone sits on the toilet not far away, blasting your favorite melancholy playlist. It’s a little bittersweet, because you used to do stuff like this all the time with Sans, but the warm water feels nice on your skin and you feel the knots in your muscles start to relax.

Your music stops playing suddenly and instead starts playing your ringtone. You groan and slide around in the bath so you can reach it, hitting the “answer” button without looking at the caller ID and leaning over the edge of the tub so that you don’t accidentally drop it in the water.

“Hello?” you ask, a little drowsily.

“Hey,” comes the caller’s voice, and immediately you tense up because you recognize the tone and  _why is Sans calling you after three months?_

“Hey,” you answer, feeling and sounding like all the air has been squeezed out of your lungs.

“You know,” he says, breathy and distant, “today would’ve been our one year anniversary.”

“If you hadn’t broken up with me,” you remind him, quickly.

“If I hadn’t broken up with you,” he agrees, and falls silent.

“Sans,” you sigh, waiting for him to get to the point. You don’t want to play games tonight.

“Look,” he says, “do you – can – can we meet up?”

 

* * *

 

You knock on his apartment door and wonder what the hell you’re doing here.

Showing up at your ex’s place, the day of what would’ve been your anniversary, just because he called after three months? When did you get this desperate?

Sans opens the door and he looks like a fucking mess.

His shirt and shorts are disheveled, like he’s been sleeping in them for days, at least. His sockets have always sat deep on his skull but they look even deeper now, heavy shadows on the bottom rim. His cheeks are flushed like he has a fever, but you’ve seen him cry exactly three times since you’ve met him and you’d recognize that post-cry ruddiness anywhere.

You want to feel a little vindicated, a little happy that you’re not the only one who’s been suffering, but really you just feel your heart ache.

“Sorry,” he says.

“What for?” you ask.

“For making such a huge fucking mistake,” he answers, and something in you breaks and you’re on him, hands on his cheeks and your lips pressed greedily against his mouth.

You both stumble out of the doorway and into his apartment – you think you manage to kick the door shut, but you’re not sure – and his hands are all over you, gripping you like you’re the last thing he’ll ever touch.

“I’m an idiot,” he’s mumbling, “I’m dumb, so dumb.”

“No, no, no,” you mutter back, mouthing his clavicle.

“I am,” he insists, pressing you against the wall. “I call you out of fucking nowhere and you come straight over, you’ve always been there for me, always –“

“F-fucking,” you stutter, because his hand is on your ass, squeezing you, gripping you, bringing your hips forward so he can rut against you, and it feels so good to have him touching you again, “you fucking  _left_  me.”

“I know,” he moans, anguished, and he buries his face in your neck and nips you lightly, like he always does, because he doesn’t have lips to kiss you with. “I didn’t  _want_  to, I thought it’d be better this way.”

“Why would this  _ever_  be  _better_  –“

“I don’t know, I don’t know anymore.” His hands fall still and he just holds you, shaking, his face still nestled near your pulse. “I forget, I’ve totally forgotten, I just want you back. Please.” His voice cracks.

He raises his head and looks you straight in the eyes and he’s desperate, that’s obvious, but there’s something else there, too. That telltale hunger that you remember so, so vividly. The make-believe cold exterior you’ve built up these past three months shatters.

“Okay,” you say, and it’s difficult just to get that one word out because you feel like his gaze could disintegrate you.

He slams his mouth against yours, urging you to kiss him again. His hands are grabbing you roughly, and that’s exactly what you want. You want him to get rough with you and you want to get rough back. You want to feel everything you’ve missed out on, tenfold.

You kiss him heatedly, and he’s guiding you over to his dining table. He turns you around and presses his palm against your back, bending you over. You plant your hands on the surface as you instinctively stand with your legs apart and look back at him over your shoulder.

He’s looking back at you, sockets lidded, mouth hanging slightly open like he’s staring at the eighth wonder of the world. He runs his hands over your body, lifts your shirt so he can touch your skin directly, and presses his face against your spine. His hands slide around to your stomach, and he runs his hands over that, too, marveling at the softness. The hands dip lower, and he’s fingering the button of your pants. He doesn’t undo them until you arch up against him and let out a needy whine.

He gives you one last look and when he doesn’t see any hesitation on your face, he yanks your pants and underwear down to your knees. Immediately, his phalanges are inside you, met with little resistance because you’re already wet. You cry out as he scissors inside you, spreading your lips with his other hand as he kneels down to look at your pussy.

“Shit…” he groans. “Shit, shit, I forgot how soft and wet you are. And so, so tight. God, I wanna fuck you so hard…” You squeeze around his fingers in response, and he whispers your name, low and throaty and reverent.

You crack. “Please fuck me,” you beg, “please, please, I want you to fuck me, Sans, it’s been so long, please…”

Before you can even finish, he’s standing back up, dropping his own pants and suddenly the atmosphere in the room changes as you feel his cock brush up against you. He leans over you, one hand threading through your hair at the back of your head.

He says your name again, his mouth right next to your ear, the head of his dick just barely touching your inner lips. “Can I fuck you hard and fast and rough? I wanna claim you, babe. I wanna make you mine again.”

“Yes!” you cry out, desperate to be fucked, and his cock slams inside you all the way to the hilt. The impact knocks the table against the wall. The hand in your hair clenches, his other hand gripping your hips.

He’s panting and shaking above you with effort from keeping himself still inside of you. “T-too much?”

“No. Give me more,” you tell him.

With a grunt, he starts thrusting, hard and fast and rough just like he promised. The table shakes every time he rams inside, the tip just shy of your cervix. You can feel yourself stretching more with each impact. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say his dick was actually growing inside you, getting bigger with each thrust until you’re at your limit. You’re full, so full it almost hurts, but you’re soaking wet and eager and you can take it. With every thrust he pulls out almost completely, then slams back into your pussy with an obscene squelching sound.

He leans over you, growls hungrily in your ear. His hand is still clutching your hips, keeping you still, and you’re being pounded into the table. You’ll likely have bruises tomorrow but you can’t really bring yourself to care right now. If he could fuck you any harder, hold you any tighter without breaking you, you’d want him to.

He untangles his fingers from your hair and reaches around to rub your clit. He has to slow down his pace, because the positioning is a little awkward, but his fingers roll against your hardened nub the way he knows you like it and you can feel the pressure building in your abdomen. He pulls out leisurely, then stuffs his cock quickly into you again and grinds his pelvis against yours so that you can feel his hard hips pressing into your butt.

The sensation of bone against your clit and the swell of your ass is so foreign, but so uniquely Sans, and you cum hard, shuddering underneath him and practically mewling. He continues to thrust into you and rub you, and you’re completely overstimulated. Your fingers are scrabbling across the table and you’re pretty sure you’re drooling but it’s so good and you don’t want him to stop so you just scream, babbling “yes, yes, yes,” over and over as your pussy clenches him tightly with each tremor of your body.

“Ohhh, God,” he groans, “babe, can I –“

Before he can even finish, you shout, “Cum inside me!” and he does, choking out your name and nuzzling his face into your back. You’re completely stuffed – his cock is already too big and there’s simply no space left, so the hot cum dribbles out of you, probably ruining your pants still bunched around your knees.

“Fuuuck,” he moans, and you can feel his knees go weak behind you. “Fuck, I love you,” he says, like it’s simple and obvious and it always has been.

“I love you too,” you say, breathless, and it’s a good thing everything except your legs is resting on the table because there’s no way you could support yourself in the condition you’re in.

The two of you stay there for a moment, his cock still buried inside you and cum leaking between your legs, before finally he has the strength in him to fetch a washcloth and clean you both up. You kiss him, shamelessly leaning on him for support, and then you wobble to his bed as he holds you close.

For a long time, there aren’t any words. You curl up under the blankets with him, feeling safe and happy and at home for the first time in three months. As you fall asleep, you think you hear him telling you that he’ll never, ever leave again.

The next morning you make breakfast with him and he assures you that it wasn’t just a dream.


	6. Sans/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one's not a request. sorry.
> 
> this one’s set up in a series of vignettes; snippets of the reader dating sans and him getting used to human anatomy.
> 
> sans/reader, afab reader, cute/awkward dating, vaginal/anal fingering, vaginal intercourse, magic dick.

It’s the end of your first date with Sans. He was a little nervous and a lot sweaty the whole time, and you let it slide because you were admittedly pretty nervous too. There’s something oddly charming and attractive about him. But he was also kind of aloof, like he didn’t really want to be there with you, and his sense of humor was questionable.

He’s dropping you off at your apartment – he told you not to worry about how he’d get home – and he’s shuffling uncomfortably in front of you, as though he’s expecting something.

You assume he’s waiting for a kiss, and you’d love to give him one, but you’re not sure how to kiss someone with no lips and you’re afraid a kiss on the forehead might come off as patronizing.

After several awkward moments and half-goodbyes, it’s him who finally moves in. He takes one of your hands in his and you’ve both got sweaty palms so it’s alright.

He presses his mouth to yours and the feeling of cold teeth against your lips is fucking awful.

He’s tilting his head even though he doesn’t need to since he has no nose, and there’s nothing except the flat surfaces of his teeth to press against. It’s like kissing a frozen corn on the cob. You try desperately to get into it. You lace your fingers with his and place your other hand on the back of his damp – ugh! – skull and tilt your head in the opposite direction, but it just isn’t working.

He pulls back, finally. It’s even more awkward than before. He cracks an awful bone pun in what was probably an attempt to break the bad atmosphere, and then he leaves.

You spend the rest of the night weighing the pros and cons of a second date with a very cute but kind of gross skeleton.

* * *

You end up going on that second date, and then a third, and then fourth, and so on. A lot of your early fears about getting involved with Sans have been assuaged. The puns stop being so awful and start being endearing. He relaxes a little more each time you go out with him, and soon you’re cracking jokes and lounging on his couch like you’re old friends. He picks you up for a date with a modest bouquet in his hands and anxiously scans your face for approval. When he later confesses that it was his brother’s idea to buy them for you, you realize it’s not that he’s not into you, just that he’s not always so good at expressing it.

The kissing thing is still an obstacle, but you’re working through it. Skeleton mouths simply aren’t made for kissing, but you don’t mind leaving chaste pecks all over his face, or running your tongue up the vertebrae of his neck. He seems to like it, too.

It worries you, though, that he never seems to want to touch you back. He never holds your hand. He sometimes catches himself touching you, absently, and then immediately backs off. You suppose it could be a little strange for him, because your bodies are so different, but you liked touching him. You liked the look of the curve of his ribs, of the iliac spine of his pelvis, the bumps on his spine. You touched him every time you had the chance, fascinated by the texture of the bone.

You wanted him to want to touch you, too.

The two of you are having a movie night – as you do every Friday night – and you’re curled up on the couch next to him. You desperately want him to pull some cheesy move, like faking a yawn to put his arm around you, but he doesn’t, of course, because he never does. You try not to pout about it but you don’t think you’re succeeding.

You squirm around under the blankets, trying to get comfortable. You feel the skin of your leg brush up against the bone of his fibula, and he tenses.

“Sorry,” you say, and you pull away, drawing your legs up onto the couch.

“No, my bad,” he says, strained, and he leans away from you to prop his elbow on the arm rest.

You try not to let your face show that you’re a little bit hurt. “You’re  _allowed_  to touch me, you know.”

He looks sideways at you, face still turned to the TV. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just saying, you know… you can. If you want.”

You turn a little to face him. He’s flexing his fingers, clenching and unclenching a fist.

“It doesn’t creep you out?” He’s deliberately keeping his voice even. “A bag of bones like me, touching you?”

“People don’t kiss people they’re creeped out by, Sans.”

He finally looks at you properly. He assesses you, his grin nervous, before he finally seems to decide that you’re telling the truth. He scooches closer to you on the couch, slouches back, reaches for your hand under the blanket and threads his hard fingers with your soft ones. It’s gentle and sweet.

It escalates every time one of you shifts on the couch. It’s a little difficult to find a comfortable position when you’re pressing yourself against solid bone, but you work it out eventually. You end up practically in his lap, his hand on your waist. He brushes a hand through your hair, fascinated, asks about your split ends as though it’s the most curious thing he’s ever seen.

After that, he fakes a yawn as he slides his arm around your shoulders every Friday night. It’s twice as cheesy because you know he doesn’t even need to breathe.

* * *

This is it. You’re finally going to fuck a skeleton.

You’re on your back in Sans’ bed. You’d just been listening to music together, swapping favorite songs from the Underground and the human world, when he’d started getting a little handsy. You were thrilled, of course, but now that he’s actually pulling down your pants you’re realizing that maybe you should have had a discussion about the logistics of skeleton sex beforehand.

He seems excited, at least. He’s looking at you, grinning wide and confident as he pulls your underwear to one side.

Then he looks down at you and his smile falters.

“Uh,” he says, and stares.

“Um,” you say back, and shift uncomfortably. “Is it –“

“Well, it’s just –“ he interrupts.

“We don’t have to –“

“No, no. I want to,” he says, firmly, definitively. “I just… don’t know where to start. With this.” He opts to pull your underwear off completely and nudges your legs open wider. He’s awkward and a bit sweaty, as he always is when he runs into human things that he doesn’t understand, but he seems genuinely intrigued.

“There’s just so much to look at,” he breathes. “Your skin’s so pretty.” He traces a finger up your thigh, between your legs and over your folds, brushing over your outer lips. “S-shit. It’s so soft.”

Your breath hitches, and he takes notice, his head immediately snapping up to look at your face. He inspects you carefully, sliding one finger in between your lips and watching as you let out a deep sigh. That grin is back, big and hungry.

“That feel good?” he asks, and when you nod in response, he slides his fingers over your entrance and up to your clit.

He spends a long while between your legs, but you don’t really have the mental capacity now to keep track of time. Cold bony fingers pressed against your warmth, leeching the heat off you.  A low and gentle voice murmurs, “Do you like this? Does it feel good if I touch you inside?” Two fingers twist inside of you, another rubs with varying pressure and speeds at your clit. Hard cheeks and teeth pressed against your abdomen and stomach and thighs.

He doesn’t know quite what you like best yet, but he’s going to find out.

* * *

Sans asks if he can use your other hole.

“What, my mouth?” you ask.

“No, I mean – your ass,” he says, and then cringes a little because it sounded cruder than he meant it to.

“Oh,” you breathe, and you hadn’t really planned on doing this, but he looks so tentatively excited and you can’t deny that it turns you on whenever you get to watch him discover something new about your body.

Two days later, you’ve made the less fun preparations already and you’re on your hands and knees as Sans presses two phalanges, slick with lube, against your asshole, playing with the rim until he feels confident enough to slip one finger inside. It feels strange, especially considering his digits are so hard with no skin over the bone, but he’s so careful with you that it ends up feeling rather pleasant.

“Weird,” he says, grasping your ass with one hand while the other probes around inside you. “It’s similar, but not the same at all. And it’s  _so_  tight.”

You whimper softly. This feels somehow more intimate than usual. It’s not necessarily pleasurable in the way that Sans’ fingers in your pussy are pleasurable, but it feels nice to have something so private penetrated like this, and the feeling of being stretched slowly as he pushes in a second finger is foreign and incredible.

He scissors his fingers gently, and you pant out his name in response. He laughs behind you, the hand on the round of your cheeks sliding down so he can brush his thumb against your lips, just barely.

“You’re getting pretty wet. Do you want me to touch you here, too?”

You whine again and nod, thrusting yourself back onto his hand. He chuckles playfully at you and moves his hand away from your cunt, his fingers pulling almost all the way out of your ass.

“I’ve been making you do everything recently. You must be tired to the bone. Let me do all the work for once, okay?” His voice is low and scratchy, and not even the bad pun can ruin how aroused he sounds.

His fingers press back inside your ass, and you feel him prodding at your other entrance, teasing you.

“How much can you take, huh? Human bodies are pretty stretchy. How much of me, how many fingers can we fit inside you, in each of your holes? Do you wanna find out? How about we spend all night finding out what your limits are?”

The answer is four.

* * *

When you’re together, you’re always touching him, your hands brushing over ribs and joints. Sans seems to enjoy it and few times you’re pretty sure he had whatever the skeleton version of an orgasm is. He shakes and rattles and has to press his forehead against your skin as he quakes violently, and afterwards he falls loosely against you as though his very bones have changed material.

But, internally, your very human expectations of sex have you wondering if he’s really enjoying himself to the fullest when all you’ve done is touch his bones.

So you ask.

“Sans,” you call his name, nudge him with your foot. It’s another Friday night and he’s half asleep on one end of the couch.

“Yeah, babe,” he says, voice sleepy and slurred.

“Do I get you off well enough?”

“What?” He says it flatly, like it’s not a question, and suddenly he’s sitting ramrod straight, sockets wide open. “Of course you are. Why would you think that you’re not?”

“Well, it’s just… it’s not like you have genitals, so…”

He squints at you. “Do I need them?”

You look away. Maybe this was a bad idea. “I don’t know! I don’t think so. It’s just that humans usually have them, and that’s usually how we get off, so…” You trail off. You’re starting to forget where you were going with this line of questioning.

He’s crawling over to you, pressing you down on your back on the couch, one hand threading through your hair and the other bracing himself so that he can hover over you. “Listen. You make me feel good. I feel like I’m on top of the world every time you touch me.” He leans in close, teeth brushing against your ear, and his voice is low and husky. “Hey… are you sure that you’re not just looking for something more than my fingers to fuck?”

Your breath hitches as you feel the energetic pulse of magic swirling around you, concentrating around Sans’ pelvis which is hovering right above you. It starts to form a shape and you watch intently, staring at the space between your two bodies. The blue swirls slowly solidify.

Into a nearly perfect cylinder.

You snort with laughter and desperately try to hold it back as Sans looks horribly offended.

“What?” he asks. “Is this not a good enough bone for you?”

“Sans, oh my God,” you manage between giggles. “It’s -  it doesn’t taper at all! How are we supposed to get that inside me?”

He huffs and looks absolutely mortified, and you feel a little bad for laughing. “Alright, cock connoisseur, give me some critique, then.”

You stay up all night working on it with Sans. You get to basically build a dream dick, but by the time you’re satisfied with it, it’s already morning and both of you are too exhausted to actually have any fun.

The next time the two of you get frisky, he inadvertently makes a cylinder again, and you have to start all over.

* * *

Sans comes home one day with a dildo.

You’re in the middle of washing the dishes when he comes into the kitchen, holding it proudly in one fist.

“What the hell,” you say, flatly, “is that?”

“Bought a little something for you,” he replies, blatantly pleased with himself.

“A  _little_  something,” you say, incredulous. “Sans, you can’t even get your fingers halfway around it.”

He finally starts to look unsure. “Is that, uh…”

“There is no way we’re getting that thing comfortably inside me.”

“Shit,” he says, looking at the dildo with his brow creased. “I don’t think this is returnable, either.”

“Oh my God.” You roll your eyes. “I hope that wasn’t too expensive. Next time, we’re picking one out together.”

* * *

“Sans, I -  oh God!”

“Babe,” he groans as you clench hard around him, his fingers digging into your hips, “if it’s too much –“

“Nooo,” you whine. It  _is_  too much, but you’re greedy, so greedy. You always want more when you’re with him. “A little more. Just a little more.”

His blue cock is stuffed inside your cunt, stretching you and filling you up entirely. He’s gotten significantly better at forming a dick with his magic recently, and today he’s suggested that the two of you experiment. He started out with an average size as you lowered yourself on top of him, but now you’re shaking with the effort as he makes his dick grow larger inside you. It’s huge, and you feel like you’re at your limit, but you so desperately want to be forced open more, filled to the brim.

You moan loudly and grind your hips down onto his pelvis as he stretches you slowly. You can feel him bottom out, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix. His girth is big that you think you might break. There’s no way you could have fit something this big inside of you in one go. The only reason it’s working now is because he’s so carefully teased you open. He’s been so patient – you know he can feel your walls tighten around his cock, you know the sounds you make only arouse him more, and you know it’s driving him mad to lay still underneath you.

“Okay,” you say, patting his ribs gently, signaling for him to stop. “Okay.”

He lets out a short growl. His face is screwed up, half in agony and half in concentration. “God, babe. It’s so fucking tight.”

You place your hands on either side of his head, take a deep breath, and lift yourself slowly, tortuously, off his dick. You can feel the shaft pulling on your walls, and he practically screams. One of his legs kicks as he desperately tries to keep himself from thrusting up into you. His hands grip your hips so hard, his fingers sinking into the flesh, and you know you’ll be sore tomorrow for more than one reason. You lower yourself back down, hissing and whimpering as you feel your pussy stretch back open.

Sans is squirming underneath you, sweating and drooling. He keeps closing his sockets and then forcing them open again, trying to watch you, the white pinpricks of light flitting between your face and place where the two of you are joined together.

“Please, babe – please. I can’t take this, please –“

You cut him off by raising your hips up again and slamming them back down in one quick motion. He cries out, grinds up into you, holding your hips down, before he relaxes again. You breathe deeply, trying to get yourself under control, before you start bouncing on his dick in earnest, slow and careful. Every time his cock pulls out of you, you feel the ridges and texture he’s formed on the surface of it sliding between your lips, and every time you stuff it back inside you they push you open just a little more. You can feel your own wetness on it, too, so wet that it’s not only coated Sans’ dick, but also the pubis of his pelvis where the shaft connects to his body.

You feel a little more sure of yourself – and truthfully, you’re also losing yourself in the feeling of being so full – so you pick up the pace, slamming down onto his dick as he writhes underneath you. His teeth are clenched hard but drool is dripping down his chin and onto the pillow beneath his head.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” he’s panting out beneath you, eyes lidded, staring at your face. “You’re so – You’re incredible.”

You reward his praise by grinding into his pelvis, then bouncing on his dick even faster. He rewards you in turn with more moans and more praise.

“Ah, fuck!  _Fuck_! It’s too good, you’re too tight, I can’t, I really can’t, please – please, please, please –“

His pleading pushes you over the edge, and you shakily try to hold yourself upright as you clench around his cock as the wave of your orgasm overtakes you and everything goes hazy. You lift your hips up just a little, trying to keep the stimulation up for him, but all your effort is already dedicated to shaking and cumming and you can’t move anymore. He curses again and grips your hips, thrusting shallowly up into you as you continue to spasm around him, your breath hitching and moans falling from your lips.

He cums fast, groaning low and long as he bursts and thrusts inside you one last time. There is simply no room left for his hot cum, and it drips out, over his pelvis and onto the sheets.

“Fuck,” he says, and again, drawn out, “fuuuck.”

You finally collapse on top of him, letting out one last sigh. You and Sans both fall asleep almost immediately, completely exhausted.

You wake up the next morning with your thighs covered in cum, and it’s disgusting. Sans just laughs at your revulsion, and promises to make it up to you later. You’re sore as hell on top of the mess, so he gladly helps you wash up, and swears to spend the whole day pampering you.

“You did all the work last night, after all,” he says.

You’re not sure if that’s entirely true. You’ve realized as your relationship has progressed that he does a lot for you. He looks out for you, takes time to make sure that he’s making you feel good, even if he doesn’t get it right the first time.

You wonder if he would do the same if you were a skeleton, too, if you didn’t have such a different body. But as he drags a wet, magic tongue against your clit, massaging you gently to make you cum, you decide that maybe you shouldn’t question it.


	7. Sans/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oops i forgot to crosspost this from tumblr. my bad  
> sorry i write so much sans, i'll write someone else soon i promise ???
> 
> another not-request, just a quick fic. thanks to doodles-foodles for the idea for the beginning
> 
> sans/reader, afab reader, phone sex (kinda?), rough sex, a little spanking, oral/vaginal sex

If you didn’t call now, you’d miss the opportunity entirely.

You’d been thrusting the dildo inside of you for some time, and the small vibrator pressed against your clit was pushing you over the edge. You stopped moving the toy for a moment to slam your finger on the call button on the cell phone laying next to you.

The phone rang once, twice, three times and you grit your teeth, trying to hold back. “Pick  _up_ , Sans,” you groan, frustrated and ready to cum.

“Hey, it’s Sans,” comes the voice from the phone, and your heart leaps before you realize it’s only his voicemail message. “I’m not near my phone right now. I’m probably busy being a bonehead. Leave a message and I’ll call back, if I remember.”

Oh, he’s going to remember.

The beep signaling the beginning of the recording period goes off, and you immediately stop trying to hold in your noises. If anything, you make more than usual, freely moaning and whimpering as you feel your climax building.

“Sans,” you moan, voice stuttering as you slam the dildo inside you hard, pressing the vibrator more fully against your clit. “Sans, please fuck me.”

Your mind blanks as you freeze up, your orgasm hitting you. You arch off the bed and release a long, low moan, before relaxing again. You gently ride it out, vibrator just to the side of your clit, slowly pulling the dildo out before easing it back in. You’re panting, whimpering, then humming contently as it finally fades and you feel warm and blissed-out.

You hang up the phone and wonder if, perhaps, that was not your best decision.

* * *

“You,” Sans says, low and threatening and accusatory, and you might be scared if you didn’t already know that he’d never hurt you. He storms over to you, shoulders hunched.

“Me,” you say, as sweetly as possible. The fact that you’re just standing around in the kitchen rummaging through the fridge, instead of in your bed fucking yourself silly as you were moments ago, only adds to your innocent façade.

“ _You_ ,” he says again, grabbing your hips and pushing you against the counter, “had me riled up all damn day.”

He presses his face into your neck, bites down lightly on your skin. You can tell he wants to be rough with you, but he’s holding back. He doesn’t want to actually hurt you, or push you past what you’re comfortable with. His hands trace your body, clutching you, bony fingers dragging down your sides through your clothes.

“You’re askin’ for trouble, kid. I got that message in the middle of my fuckin’ shift, and all I could think about all damn day was pounding into you until you scream.”

You arch and grind your hips against his pelvis. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“Shit, babe,” he groans, and he’s dragging you off to the bedroom.

He keeps his hands on you the whole way, grabbing you roughly, growling near your ear. He tells you he wants you bent over, begging for his cock, and when you get to the bedroom you immediately comply. You get on your hands and knees on the bed, and he’s on his own knees behind you.

He pushes on your back, pressing your face into the mattress. “You wanna get fucked hard, huh? You want me to fuck your cunt until you go numb?”

“Yes,” you hiss out, and you’re rewarded with a quick slap on your ass. You yelp, and he cups your cheek with his bony hand, squeezes hard over the red mark he’s made.

Then three of his phalanges slide into you – easily, because you’re soaked – and he fingerfucks you hard, the bones of his wrist slamming against you, grinding into your skin when he pauses to curl his fingers against your walls.

“You don’t even fucking need a warmup today, do you? You’re already so fucking wet and ready. I bet you were fuckin’ playing with yourself all day, making those hot noises you make. You know, they don’t sound quite as good over the phone. You sound better live, when it’s me making you moan and not some shitty piece of silicon.”

He removes his fingers and you feel the tip of his cock pressing at your entrance. The head pops in, and you whimper more in anticipation of the rest of his dick inside you, but he’s stopped moving, his hips still with one of his hands resting on your lower back.

“You want it so bad? Then how about you do the work, hmm?” You peek back over your shoulder at him, and he’s got his other hand resting on his pelvis, which is peeking out from his shorts because he’s shoved them down somewhat to release his cock. He looks smug as hell, but you can also detect just a hint of nervousness if you look hard enough.

You prop yourself up on your hands and thrust your body backwards onto his dick, the rest of it sliding into you just as easily as his fingers before. He grunts appreciatively and says, “Yeah, that’s it.”

You fuck yourself back onto him, relishing the feeling of his thick cock spreading you open. It’s a bit difficult, and you can’t go quite as fast or as hard as you would like, but his soft pants and grunts behind you spur you on. He can’t help himself from whispering little praises to you, telling you how tight and wet you are and how good your pussy feels.

Suddenly he seems to snap, and one hand goes to your waist, while the other fists in your hair and presses you into the mattress again. He leans over you, and you can feel his teeth against your spine.

“Good job,” he says, and his voice is low and husky from want. “My turn now.”

He pulls out of you slowly, then slams back in with another slap to your ass. You cry out, but he’s already thrusting into you with a quick rhythm now, slamming so deeply inside of you that his bones press against the roundness of your ass.

“Oh, fuck,” you scream as he bottoms out, just barely pressing against your cervix, “Sans!” It hurts, just a little, but it feels so good to have him be rough with you like this. You know it’s controlled, that he’s being rough for the sake of being rough and not because he’s lost his ability to hold back, but that doesn’t make it any less hot as he leans over your body, grabs your breast roughly and pinches your nipple hard.

“Fuckin’ hell, babe,” he growls, stopping to grind himself against you before resuming the rough, wild thrusts. “You’re so fucking wet, so good, I can’t –“

You haven’t cum yet, but he’s shaking above you and you know it’s difficult for him to hold it in. He really must have been worked up for a while because of that voicemail. You’d feel bad if his dick didn’t feel so good. “Cum!” you scream, arching against him when he tugs your hair harder. “Fucking cum inside me!”

“Shit!” A stream of intelligible curses falls from his mouth as he buries himself inside you and stills. You can feel his cock pumping out cum, thick spurts that fill up what little space you had left and leak out between your legs. Your breath hitches, you’re close –

He pulls out of you and collapses onto the bed. You sigh, letting yourself fall next to him and rolling onto your back. You both lay there panting for a moment, his sockets closed, before they suddenly fly open again and he seems to realize something.

“Holy shit,” he says, “holy shit, you still haven’t cum. I’m so sorry, babe.”

You try to tell him it’s okay, that you still had fun, but he’s already between your legs, ghastly blue tongue emerging from his mouth. It’s wet with some foreign liquid as he trails it up your thighs, laps up his own glowing cum from your entrance, curls against your skin in ways that a normal tongue shouldn’t. Your breath practically stops altogether. No matter how many times he uses that tongue on you, it always feels alien and bizarre and incredible.

“Sans,” you breathe, and he chuckles. The laugh vibrates through his tongue and against your lips. You’re already close again, but you’re trying to keep it in so that this will last longer.

He seems to realize this. “Been fucking yourself all day and you’re still trying to drag this out?” His tongue slides inside you, thick and wet, and curls against your walls as they squeeze around it. His thumb is at your clit, rubbing you firmly and slowly as he tonguefucks you. Another hand slips under your ass, gently caresses the skin he’d smacked so roughly before.

“Just let go, kid,” he says, voice rumbling straight through you, and you cum around his tongue, arching hard and pressing your pussy against his face. You stop thinking. Sounds are coming out of your mouth but they aren’t the same as the ones you made when you called him before. They aren’t controlled or calculated or designed to turn him on, and when you finally come down from the high, you’re a little worried you sounded unattractive.

When you look down, his jawbone is covered in your wetness, and he’s grinning with lidded, hazy eyes. “Told you that you sound better when it’s me making you cum.”


	8. Sans/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sans/reader, no reader gender, exhibitionism, masturbation, & facial

Admittedly, you’re a little nervous about asking Sans to do this for you, and the smug but surprised look on his face isn’t really helping.

“Seriously? You just wanna watch?” He’s smirking at you, his back up against the wall and legs spread out on the bed. You’re sitting in front of him and between his legs. You wipe a bit of spit off your mouth – you may have been making out a little sloppily.

“Yeah, seriously. You think I’m patelling a joke?” you tease, using one of his favorite bone puns in hopes of sucking up a little.

He closes his sockets and snickers, but you can’t help but notice a little sweat forming on his brow. Is he nervous?

“Okay, babe. If you really want me to…” He trails off, sounding just a little unsure, as he pushes his shorts down slightly and pulls out his fat cock. He wraps two fingers around the base and looks at your face, scanning for a reaction, and hesitantly starting to pump himself.

Meanwhile, your eyes are trained on the movement of his hand. He looks so good like this, so fascinating, his bony hand running over and squeezing glowing, translucent pseudo-skin and smearing his pre-cum as he brushes over the tip. When he drags his hand back down, it pulls the mock flesh with it and exposes the head more fully, and he grips the base in a way that makes you want to wrap your mouth around his massive girth. You instinctively lick your lips and you can hear him groan in response as his cock twitches eagerly.

“Shit… you – you’re really not gonna do anything to help me out here?” he asks, his voice hushed but gravelly. “Is this – ah – payback for always laying back and making you do the work?”

You flick your gaze up to his face and he already looks positively undone. Sweat is rolling down his skull now and he’s drooling slightly. The lights in his sockets are completely trained on you, your face especially. He’s watching you get off on this, and he’s getting off on your reactions.

You reach out and touch his fibula lightly. He jolts at the contact and laughs, sounding slightly hysterical and very needy. You grin, almost maliciously, as you trail your fingertips up his leg and over his patella and trace the ridge of his knee. You’re barely touching him, and it’s not as though his kneecap is an erogenous zone for him, but he’s reacting as though it is, sinking into the mattress and moaning openly. He grips his cock harder and pumps his hand faster, and his other hand is clutching at his shorts.

“Holy shit,” Sans gasps, then he closes his eyes and adjusts his position slightly, trying to regain his composure. His brow is all twisted up. “You’re so ffff-fucking hot. It’s too… too much. I – hhng – can’t even look at you, s-shit, babe, I’m –“

“Do you want to cum on my face?” you interrupt him, and he stills completely.

“Really?” His eyes fly open and mouth drops open. He looks like you’ve just proposed to him.

You just grin at him in response.

He snaps out of his surprised stupor after a moment and growls, “Get on the floor.”

You get on your knees at the edge of the bed, and he swings his legs over the side and positions himself so that the tip of his cock is directly in front your face as he continues to work himself. He leans over, threads his phalanges through your hair.

You open your mouth and stick out your tongue in anticipation. The tip of your tongue accidentally brushes against the head of his dick, and that’s all it takes for him to lose it. He jerks suddenly, letting out a low and rumbling moan, one hand clutching your hair a little roughly and the other frantically pumping his cock as he covers your face in his cum. You closed your eyes the minute you realized he was cumming, but you can feel it landing in hot ropes over your cheeks and nose. A fair amount gets in your mouth, and you make a show of swallowing it for him.

You wipe your face a little bit, then lick the cum off your fingers as you open your eyes. You look up to see Sans looking down at you, awestruck and out of breath. He takes a moment to compose himself enough to say anything.

“Okay. Now it’s your turn to let me watch,” he breathes. “But I’m not sure I wanna keep my hands off you for very long.”


	9. Sans/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sans/reader, gender neutral reader, mentions of bondage, memes
> 
> this one doesn't actually have any sex, its just you n sans lounging around all day

You wake up to the sound of Sans chortling. Your face is pressed up against his back – nestled in the hoodie he never ever takes off – and you can feel the light vibrations of his laughter. Blearily, you roll over to grope for your phone on the bedside table and look at the time. You grumble and weakly kick Sans’ leg under the covers.

“It’s noon. We gotta get up.”

He rolls around to face you, shoves his own phone in your face. “Watch this video first,” he says, voice still tinged with mirth.

The youtube app is open and playing a video with strangely complicated diagrams with Mario – you know, the video game plumber. Some guy is saying, “But first, we have to talk about alternate universes,” and Sans loses his shit.

* * *

An hour or two later, you’re still in bed. Sans’ head is tucked into the crook of your neck and he has one hand resting on your chest. It’s your turn to hold up the phone so you can both watch the screen, even though his turns seem suspiciously shorter than yours. The current video finishes and you look through the recommended ones. “Play another no joystick run video,” says Sans.

* * *

Another few hours later and you’ve brought “breakfast” (it still counts as breakfast, even if it’s well into the afternoon) back to the bedroom in an attempt to lure him out, but instead you both just end up eating in bed. While you were gone he managed to get to your laptop and now he’s reading Cracked articles, and not even the good ones. You peek over his shoulder to see him typing “Seinfeld” into the Cracked.com search function.

“No. Sans, _no_ ,” you scold him, like you’re reprimanding a misbehaving puppy. “We have to get up.”

You wrestle the laptop away from him and start closing tabs, but get distracted when you get to google searches for bondage and shibari how-to guides. Shockingly, the results for “how to tie up a skeleton with rope” are not very helpful looking.

You laugh and fall back, curling up to his side. “Why would I even need to tie you up when you always just lie there anyway?”

He fakes an offended gasp but he’s still grinning. “That’s rude. I worked myself down to the bone last time.”

“You were already just bones, so that means you did no work at all.”

He laughs and shoves his hand gracelessly down your pajama pants as he points out a really complicated rig in the image search results that neither of you would ever have the patience to learn to do.

* * *

In the end, the two of you don’t even end up doing anything of substance. He gropes you for a while, his face pressed against your neck and chest and nipping at you lazily, and you slip your hand up his hoodie and over his rib cage, until he starts nodding off. You should get up, you think, but it’s already getting dark again anyway, and your arms are around each other and it would be a shame to wake him up when you’re both so comfortable. Maybe he’s a bad influence on you, or maybe you’re not as good of an influence as you should be. But the day’s already mostly wasted, you muse, so you may as well waste the rest of it.


	10. Grillby/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> grillby/reader, reader is genderless, established relationship, public sex maybe .. ? (you give him a bj in the empty bar)

Warmth brushes against your face, ghosting over your cheeks and down towards your neck. Drowsily, you lift yourself off the counter to lean into the heat.

Grillby crackles softly, but he sounds irritated.

“Five more minutes, Mom,” you joke, and crack an eye open just in time to see him literally flare up in annoyance. You decide not to push your luck. “What time is it?”

“Well past closing time,” he says, and his voice is low and even but you can still tell he’s a little peeved. You don’t blame him, and honestly, you feel a little bad knowing you’ve kept him here since he can’t close the bar until the last customer is gone.

“You should’ve woken me up sooner,” you mumble, standing up and walking around the counter. Your eyes are lidded – more from sleepiness than lust, but you hope it still looks alluring regardless. You press your hand against his chest and turn him so that he’s backed up against the counter. “Let me make it up to you,” you say, sliding your hand down his body and moving to your knees.

He’s warm even through his clothes, and when you unzip his pants you can even feel the warmth on your face. He hums appreciatively, fire roaring underneath the rumble of his voice, as you pull out his cock, which is surprisingly already half hard.

You lick a line up the underside of his dick. It’s hotter against your tongue than your skin, but just shy of burning you. It’s also absurdly smooth, nearly glasslike, which is a blessing since you can’t always produce enough saliva to keep up with it evaporating from the heat. You wrap your lips around the head of it and try not to look too smug when you hear him take a sharp breath and see him grip the countertop. You can feel him growing harder in your mouth, which is even more satisfying.

You slowly take the whole of him in your mouth as he continues to swell, and he groans, soft and deep. You smile around his dick – you know he’s making noise for your benefit, not because he really needs to. He’s not a terribly talkative person, even less so when you’re intimate together, but after you mentioned to him that you felt insecure about making him feel good he started making an effort to vocalize his pleasure for you. He’s still not terribly noisy, and he probably never will be, but you can’t say you really mind. The quiet moans and occasional labored breathing are part of his charm.

You keep up a slow pace, pressing your tongue against him as you pull back, until he impatiently thrusts into his mouth. It surprises you and throws you off for a minute, because he usually has an incredible level of patience, but you suppose he’s probably eager to finish up since you’ve already kept him at the bar for so long.

You pick up speed, bobbing your head on his cock and gripping the fabric of his pants to brace yourself. He takes another sharp breath in response and threads one hand into your hair, gripping it tightly. The warmth at your scalp and at the back of your throat feels strangely comforting.

The next time you pull back you swirl your tongue around the head of his dick, gathering spit in your mouth before you quickly and messily stuff him back into your mouth, so deep your nose presses against his abdomen. This time the noise he makes is definitely not just for your benefit.

“Careful,” Grillby says, and you can tell by the breathless sound of his voice that he’s close.

You don’t know why he always tells you to be careful when you definitely aren’t going to be. You bob on his dick only twice more, paying special attention to the head each time, before he snaps his hips forward with a gasp and comes hard in your mouth.

His cum crackles in your mouth almost like pop rocks, but it strangely tastes like nothing and isn’t even as warm as his body. It always feels weird going down, but you swallow around his dick anyway, and his knees nearly buckle.

You remove your mouth from his cock with a soft pop, and lean back to look at him. He’s staring at the ceiling, leaning heavily against the counter. You smile, pleased with yourself. This is probably the only time anyone ever sees him look disheveled.

The aftermath is a flurry of movement as he zips himself up, fetches your coat, and presses the mouthless lower half of his face against your forehead in a makeshift kiss as you head out the door. It’s pretty par for the course – he’s always a little distant and not really one for cuddling after sex. But he wraps his warm hand around yours, and leans over to whisper in your ear as he walks you home.

“Later, it’s your turn.”


	11. Sans/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sans/reader, gender neutral reader, begging (maybe slight humiliation at the beginning?), monster/skeleton heat, bone touching (no glow dicks)

“Kid, please… I’m literally begging on my knees here.”

You smile down at Sans, even though it feels a little cruel. He looks cute like this, sweating and flushed, his hands resting on his femurs as he desperately tries to behave. “Aww, come on. You’re normally so patient, Sans. Like, inhumanly patient.” You grin a little at your own joke.

Sans barks out a laugh too, in spite of himself. “Funny. But I’m serious.” He’s not meeting your eye, and he hasn’t since he appeared in your apartment. “I came to you because… because I don’t have anyone else I can ask.”

“It doesn’t help when you, like… do it yourself?”

He laughs again, and it’s hoarser, strained. “It helps a little, but not much. Besides, I can barely stand anymore. You think I have it in me to sustain physical activity?”

“As though you would anyway, even if you could.”

He looks up at you, finally. His sockets are lidded and he looks so embarrassed with his position. “Trust me. If it meant not having to look like a fool in front of you, then I would.”

You’re quiet for a minute. First, you feel profoundly sympathetic for him. After a little thought, though, you realize how much you must mean to him if he feels that way, and you’re intensely flattered and more than a little excited. You have to admit that you’ve thought about touching him like this more than once.

You must’ve been quiet for a while, because he prompts you with, “Throw me a bone, yeah?”

You smile at him again. “Okay,” you say, and you get down on your knees on the floor with him. You’re not really sure he could make it to your bedroom in this state and he seems perfectly fine with doing this where ever.

You trail your fingers hesitantly over his cheek and down to the vertebrae of his neck. He keens sharply when you reach his collarbone, even though you’re touching it over his shirt, and grips your arm. “Seriously, kid, I’m… _please_ touch me. _Really_ touch me.”

You slip your other hand up under his shirt and his labored breathing starts stuttering as though it’s caught in a throat he doesn’t have. “You know, when you first told me you were in heat, I think maybe I was underestimating how badly you needed this,” you tell him. The unspoken message is that you’re wondering now if he actually wants to do this with _you_ , or if you’re just the most likely willing partner.

It’s certainly not as though he’s reacting to you specifically. You trace one finger down his sternum and he practically quakes. You know you’re not that good. He’d be reacting this strongly to anyone touching him. Hesitantly, you pull your hand back out of his shirt.

You don’t want to do this with him unless he actually wants you.

“No!” he practically screams, grabbing your arm again with one hand and clenching the other in the fabric of your shirt. “Please! Please, I need this.”

“Sans…” you trail off because you feel bad denying him, but it’s also not fair for him to ask you to sacrifice your own feelings so that he can get off. “You’re sure there’s no one else you can ask?”

“You’re the only person I _want_!” He’s frantic, practically in tears. You’ve never seen him this emotional about anything.

Caught up in the moment, you kiss him full on the mouth. He flinches back, surprised, before pressing his mouth harder against yours. You run your tongue against the edge of his teeth and his strange, glowing tongue peeks out. It’s something you’ve only seen before when he was eating or pulling a gag, and it feels a little weird inside your mouth, but not unpleasant.

He’s sloppy, though, and clearly unfocused. Both his hands are on your shoulders now, and yours are resting on the crest of his hipbones over his clothes. He shuffles into your lap to get closer to you and you can feel the hard line of his sternum pressing against your chest as he leans into you.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Please, please…” He says it like it’s a prayer.

His begging is finally starting to get to you, and the way he’s rutting against your body is even worse. He nips at your neck and you’re gone. You shove your hands down his shorts and grasp the back of his pelvis, flipping him back onto the floor so you can hover over him. You press your tongue against his neck and he groans, long and wavering.

He’s drooling, spit running down his chin and moans, “Oooh, shit!” You pull his shirt up and wrap one hand around his lumbar vertebrae and twist your fist, and your other hand fingers the holes in his ischium. You’re just as frantic as him now, desperately touching any part of him you can get your hands on.

You pull his shorts down, exposing his pelvis, and lean down to lick up the crest of it. He practically screams, his feet scuffling across the floor looking for purchase. “Good!” he yells, completely out of it. “So good, I knew you’d be good at this…”

“How’d you know?” you ask, breathless, as you move your fingers up the inside of his ribcage. Your mouth is back at his neck again, and you focus your other hand’s attention on the line of his pubic symphysis, rubbing your thumb slowly down the line and then brushing it quickly back up.

“Just because,” Sans stops to gasp, “it’s you.” He says it simply, like that’s all that’s needed to explain it.

He grunts and wraps his legs around your waist so he can rut against you again. His coccyx is pressed up against your abdomen and his back is arching against the floor. You can feel the divots in the bone as he grinds it against you and lets out a string of curses.

He grasps the hair at the nape of your neck, pulls you away from his neck so he can kiss you again. His tongue is messy and he’s totally getting spit all over you, and you wonder if he always kisses like this.

Your lower arm is almost completely inside his ribcage now. It’s a little awkward to do while also trying to keep kissing him and feel up his pelvis, but if you stretch just a little bit more, then you could probably…

You break away from the kiss and look down to see your fingers poking up over the top of his sternum. You can curl them, touch his collarbones as the inside of your elbow bumps up against his last rib.

“That is _so_ weird,” you say, not unkindly, and you run your fingers along his clavicle. At the same time, you run your thumb down the middle of his pubis one more time, and he lets out a strangled noise. His eyes go completely dark and he shakes, his hand gripping your hair painfully as he tenses up and then goes very still. He manages a few short, gasping breaths before he finally falls completely limp in your arms.

“God,” you say, leaning back to survey him, “are you okay?”

His sockets have slid closed and he has a smile that looks even more dopey than usual. “Never felt better. That was – you’re incredible.”

“Oh, please. All I did was touch you.”

“You didn’t see your face,” he says, sighing wistfully as if he’s remembering something from years ago and not something that just happened. “Never seen you that intense. You’re always hot, but…”

You’re both quiet for a bit. You’re not really sure what to say to that, and just saying “thanks” seems a little insincere, so you just say nothing. Sans seems perfectly content to continue laying on the floor, his pelvis still in your lap.

Something occurs to you, though. “So. Are you, like, done with it now? The heat? Or is it gonna get bad again?”

Sans makes a disgruntled noise in response. “Uh. I’ll probably start getting riled up again in a couple hours.”

There’s another silence as you just sit there and watch him breathe. He opens his eyes.

“I won’t make you do this again. This is already more than I should’ve asked you for.”

“What if I want to?” you ask.

He looks you directly in the eye, like he’s waiting for you to say “just kidding.” He takes a long, steadying breath before he answers.

“Well, if you want to, there’s no way I’d turn down the human I’ve been crushing on for months.”


End file.
